I had bound off the last stitch, and my mind bein’ free it soared up noble agin, and I says firmly and impressively:
“Good, honest hard work is the best speculation I ever went into, Josiah Allen.”
“Yes,” says he, with that same dretful wise look, “wimmen naterally feel different about these things. Wimmen haint got such heads onto ’em as we men have got. We men love to make money by a speck. We love to get rich by head work.”
I jest give one look onto his bald head, a strange, searchin’ look, that seemed to go right through his brains and come out the other side. I didn’t say anything, only jest that look, but that spoke (as it were) loud.
He looked kinder meachin’, and hastened to explain.
“I am goin’ to fix up that old house of our’n, Samantha, and rent it,” says he. “I am goin’ to make piles and piles of money out of it, besides the comfort we can take a neighborin’.” “And,” says he, “I love to—to neighbor, Samantha—I love to deerly.”
Says I in calm tones, but firm: “There are worse neighbors, Josiah Allen, than them that are livin’ in the old house now.”
“Livin’ there now?” says he. And his eyes stood out from ¼ to a ½ a inch in surprise and horrer.
“Yes,” says I, “you’ll find, Josiah Allen, that take it right along from day to day, and from year to year, that there are worse creeters to neighbor with than Peace, and Quiet, and Repose.”
“Dummit! scare a man to death, will you?”